Satan At His Finest
by The Ivy Among Roses
Summary: Moriarty wants to break them, crush them like baby birds in his hands. The devil is on their back, and is going to leave some scars... Please heed this warning! Extreme violence, drug abuse and death of random and non existent children. I own nothing.
1. Here Enter The Villain

_His leg… Someone put the damn fire out in his leg… The aching pulsating pain that echoed up his entire leg, from the ankle to the thigh throbbed and burned, fragments of bone like glass to his flesh, told him his right leg had been shattered, broken, busted, tapped out, and in short destroyed. Burning pain, blinding pain, pain that wrenched his gut this way and that, threatening vomit, possibly blood, pain so bad even Sherlock Holmes was contemplating begging for mercy. God no make it stop god John fix it, please John just make it stop. Sherlock moaned, moaned in agony, agony beyond agony as his leg panged with sudden force, and Sherlock spewed vomit onto the cold concrete ground beneath him, its foul stuffy smell floating up his nostrils and reminding him of what he needed to know. He licked his lips, tasted the rusty tang of blood, and set to work._

_Status: Alive, vitals functioning, heartbeat stable, oxygen purity normal. Right leg: Broken in multiple places, tibia, fibula, knee cap shattered, upper thigh cracked. Pull yourself together you foolish man and deal with it. Deal with it, pain is only a series of neurotransmitters sending the signal that something is wrong with the chemicals in the body, so ignore it and focus._

_Location: Damp muddy smell on the air, stale, rain here three days ago then, so that rules out London. Think you idiot, ignore the pain, think, where has there been rain in the last three days… Cardiff… yes it had to be Cardiff, John was grumbling at the telly when it screamed that Cardiff would be raining… He had a medical conference there… Dark, lights must be out…what happened? Why am I here?_

_There was water dripping from a pipe somewhere, it's quiet plunking the only sound. The smell of dampness mingling with the smell of dirt, giving the air of being buried alive, though Sherlock knew he was above ground or the stink of mold would be apparent and intoxicating. He could hear a wind howling against whatever room he was in, so he assumed that this was a shed or garage of some kind, maybe a branching section of a complex._

_Then he heard it, clicking footsteps of expensive shoes, the high and cold whistling of a man._

"_Why hello my dear! What a surprise to see you! Well when I say surprise…" _

_Jim Moriarty. The footsteps came closer to Sherlock's head, and he heard the strain of fabric as Jim bent down, running an icy thumb down over one of his eyes. Lights flicked on and Sherlock realized he was facing the wall, which was made of concrete made to look like there were actual bricks there, approximately7 feet high, with a wooden ceiling… Not a cellar, but close to the ground, no windows one door, pipes trailing the walls. _

_Jim Moriarty was looking at him very intently._

"_I thought you wouldn't wake up until I saw you spew chunks, what a lovely mess. Why did you throw up anyway? Oooooooh could it have been from this?" Jim straightened up._

_Sherlock screamed as the psychopath kicked his bad leg, the toe of his shoe hitting it's mark around the shin area, near one of the fractures. Bloody churning fire began spreading up his leg, centralizing around the place of impact, and Sherlock screamed and screamed and_ screamed. _And all the while he screamed, Jim sang._

"_Regrets collect, like old friends…" Sherlock screamed louder as Jim rested his foot on top of the leg, simply let it rest upon his leg, enjoying watching Sherlock try to pull his hands out of the zip ties that were restraining him. _

"_Here to relive our darkest moments…" Oh god could the screams get any louder? They were hoarse and primal, loud and to Jim at least, strangely arousing. There was just something about screaming genius that just made him want to blow up a hospital or a safe house. To Sherlock however, they were the vocal embodiment of what he felt, the fire and its white hot flames. He wanted to vomit the pain was so bad, though he had already emptied the meager contents of his stomach, to simply get rid of everything useless so that it couldn't be hurt like his leg, god no anything but his leg, please god no…_

_Jim left the broken leg and sat cross legged right in front of Sherlock's face, near the pipe his hands were clipped to. He pulled out one of the silk handkerchiefs he had and wiped some sweat from Sherlock's brow looking at the detective sadly. _

"_Do you want me to stop that? Is that why you screamed so loud?" he waited for a reply. Sherlock sobbed dryly, and nodded slowly his clear grey eyes drooping. Jim grabbed a handful of the detective's curly hair and pulled his head up to face him, getting almost nose to nose with his captive._

"_I DIDN'T GET AN ANSWER SHERLOCK." He whispered through gritted teeth and he smiled as the detective thrashed feebly, more like a dying fish then a rather tall and healthy man. _

"_Yes! Please don't do it again!" Sherlock was crying now, real tears falling down his face, wetting the sides of his nose. _

"_Oooooh Sherlock don't cry, I didn't mean to make it hurt that badly! Well no that's a lie, I did want it to hurt like that, give you a sense of mortality and pain beyond pain. Pain soooooo bad you would beg but you know, after I ran over your leg with a truck I didn't even think you would last _that _long." Sherlock looked up at him with vacant eyes, his lips parted to release the heavy sobs that became constant and ever present in the air. _

"_Your run on sentences are pointless, you would do much better just using simple sentence structure." Jim mocked a hurt look on his face, then snuck away back to Sherlock's leg, standing on it, full two feet on top of the tibia. _

_Sherlock rasped and yelled and shrieked, thrashing and wriggling under Jim's weight, his eyes closed tight as he strained to yell, and as the yell grew louder so did Jim's song._

"_Every demon wants his pound of flesh…" _

_Jump. Jump. Jump. Jim was having fun with this now, knowing Sherlock meant that he found this even more fun than when a random client paid him to do this to their third cousin or old boss. _

"_But I like to keep something to myseeeeelf…"_

_Yell. Scream. Squeal. Sherlock was crying uncontrollably, screaming until his throat felt raw and dry, stinging as the mucus that lined it was slowly being stripped away and leaving only his windpipe. _

"_Why are y-you doing this?" he rasped as the consulting criminal stepped off his leg, and sat down away from Sherlock, as though to not tempt himself into hurting him anymore. Jim pulled out his phone and held the back up in front of Sherlock, who lay on his back as much as his position would allow, on the floor with his arms outstretched, as though he was flying through the air, his head lying on the cold floor. _

_Jim snapped a picture of Sherlock and sent it to the only person who would really appreciate the tear stains on his face and the mangled mess that was his leg: Mycroft Holmes. _

"_I want to see what breaks you Sherlock. I want to break you into thousands of little pieces, then send you back to that ponce of a brother as a quivering mess. I want to reduce the great Sherlock Holmes to nothing, I want to be occupied with your torture. I want to memorize your screams" Jim cooed, saying it in a merry singsong voice as if telling Sherlock about the new cat his mother had bought him, the lust in his voice chilling Sherlock, his mind doing that thing it always did, analyzing everything, trying to figure out what would happen next. But his next guess was almost a given, not really a guess at all but a statement. He was going to be put through painful ordeals, and his leg was just the half of it. _

_Oh his leg, Thought jim as stared at the text message he had just sent along with the photo: _

To: The Iceman

2:43 pm

All the king's horses and all the king's men… Do you think his leg is broken? I couldn't quite concentrate with all that screaming. He damn near dented the truck that ran over it, his bones are extremely tough.

_They sat in silence for a few minutes, Jim typing away on his mobile, Sherlock deducing random things about his leg until something simple hit him full on in the face. He didn't have a clue how he got here._

"_How did I get here?" He whimpered looking around frantically. _

"_Oh and now we come to that piece of information. You see, the thing about John Watson is he knows exactly when and where you are, why and how, and what you drink, making it veeery veeeeeeery eeeasy to slip just a little something into your tea, don't you remember?"_

_He did remember now, remembered the tea Mrs. Hudson had brought him, and she had tried to introduce him to her new friend Katrina? Katherine? Kathleen, or something, though he didn't much care, and he had made himself a cuppa and… Nothing. He groaned as his leg moved, more like a twitch than anything else, but nonetheless excruciatingly painful._

"_John Watson was ever so helpful, even told us what case you had been on and everything." _

"_What? That's preposterous John has been home all week." _

"_Has he really Sherlock? When was the last time you saw him?" Jim was smiling at Sherlock deviously, his shock white teeth glowing under the florescent light bulb that lit the room, his dark suit crisp and silky, the devil truly, Satan at his finest._

"_He was there on Thursday."_

_Jim got up and knelt down beside Sherlock, his phone held up so that Sherlock could see what picture lay on its florescent screen. _

_Fear griped Sherlock and he writhed like an adder, twisting and turning, bucking and trying to rear, pulling at the plastic around his wrists, roaring angry words and abuse as the picture from the phone burned ever brightly in his eyes, the ghost of its image and meaning refusing to fade. _

_He fought to stand, paining his leg a great deal until Jim had enough of hearing over and over again how 'I will kill you James Moriarty, kill you so well no one will ever find you' and injected the only consulting criminal in the world with a mild sedative, leaving Sherlock to wail and stew in his misery his final words that of a song: " I am done with my graceless heart…"_

_XxXxXxXxX_

_No no no no no no NO NO NO! Not him not him oh god not him anything but him anybody but him oh god my fault! _

_Sherlock felt the cool slice of a needle in his shoulder, its contents pooling into his bloodstream like fish following the current, staining the cells with their inky colors, mapping their way around like tourists looking for sights to spot, finding their way to his head and slowing his thoughts. Sherlock felt his leg pounding and aching from his unceasing struggle, and was almost relieved when he felt his eyelids sag, and his mind slowly falling into warm darkness, sinking him into a half conscious sleep, as though Jim had wanted him to be able to contemplate what he had just seen. The image itself was glowing white behind the lids of his eyes, like some kind of cruel light house. _

_Somewhere, Sherlock knew that John Watson was tied to a chair, with half his arm hanging off, the bone a mangled bloody mess, blackened as though burned away with flames. _

_The picture had no evidence of having been tampered with… _

_**HI! It's me. The song that jim is singing is Shake It Out by Florence and the Machine, and I don't own it or anything in this entire story. Thanks for reading!**_


	2. Stolen Luxeries

_Cut. Cut. Cut. _

_Blood drips slowly from between Sherlock's eyes, falling onto his lids and clinging to his eyelashes as Moriarty danced around him, singing another verse of his evil little song, his voice menacing on the air and loud in Sherlock's ears. _

_Cut. Cut. Cut. Oh god please no, Sherlock thinks, as the blade of his knife trails along the curves of his ear, the cold whisper of song etching it's lyrics into the side of his brain, drawing it's words in his memory. _

"_And I am done with my graceless heart so tonight I'm gonna cut it out and then restart." _

_Please please please please, no no no no. Sherlock starts twisting, trying to free himself as the blade began pressing harder and eventually forced blood, dripping into his eardrum, the pain bearable for the moment, but Sherlock knew that, as with his finger nails, the pain would begin at a startling pace to be unbearable, then climb to burning, and then jump all the way up to excruciating. _

"_Oh god please don't Jim please I can't don't stop, stop, stop!" Jim just ignored the crying and threw his leg over Sherlock's throat, catching his windpipe in the back of his knee, thereby holding his head steady and stopping the pleas. _

_Honestly, you could only listen to pleases and screams so many times before even Jim got tired of it. Deeper and deeper into the ear canal the switch blade went, and Sherlock's choked screams grew louder and louder until Jim got up, unhooking his knee from his captive's throat, and stepping back to admire his artwork. _

_Sherlock's eyelids now sported the letters J.M, on his brows Rich B., the flesh around his compound fracture reopened and sporting more cuts and abrasions. _

_Jim was impressed. _

_Jim was rather content with this arrangement, having Sherlock on the ground and bleeding, his eardrums possibly ruined depending on how deep his cuts actually went, and having him being pinned behind the large and rather jagged bone that protruded from his calf and thigh. _

"_Mr. Moriarty? He's awake." A voice in Jim's ear alerted him that there was actually a world outside of this one, outside of this wonderfully fun room. He pressed a finger to his ear piece, so used to having a phone on him._

"_OK, unlock the door." There was a click, and Jim grabbed the door knob, pushing through the 3 inch steal with ease, leaving the sobbing man to go see another about a certain part of his body he was missing._

"_Hey Johnny Boy! How are you?" Jim pulled a whole new song out of his memory, one that played well with the situation one that reminded everyone of his victims who heard it, who Jim Moriarty was… _

_He was evil. _

_He was the man that the devil sent to run errands, for his special touch, deal sinful news to those most deserving. _

_Behold the devil's messenger._

_Satan's right hand. _

_Hell's finest._

_John Watson tried to scream. Really he did. But 9 days of this had taught him, one word, one moan or sound, and he would lose something dear to him. _

_6 finger nails. _

_5 toes._

_3 teeth._

_1 arm… _

_The ragged stump had stanched it's blood flow days ago leaving the smell of rotting flesh and what in Jim's opinion was the smell of ultimate defeat heavy in the air, like humidity, like smoke, like empty screams, like echoing words, like the ghosts of a previous life the life as a doctor. Well, add shattered dreams to the list of heavy smells, Jim thought. _

"_Now my lovely, how brave are you feeling today?"_

_Jim held a candle out for the Doctor to see, having pulled it from inside his blazer. John looked at it with dull eyes, broken from pain, muted by screams, and deafened by laughter._

_Then Jim pulled out a gun. _

_Every day a choice. Continue the torture, or choose the easy way out. Everyday John chose the torture. Every day he would cry alone afterwards, whispering under his breath as the screams in the other room rang high. _

"I am sorry," He would say, "Sorry for everything."

_Everyday closer to the gun. Everyday Hell would beckon. _

_After all, the deepest pit of Hell is reserved for betrayers… _

_John nodded towards the candle. _

_Everyday closer._

_And so Jim began. He pulled out a lighter, lit the candle and began singing, his smile demonic, the picture of his boss, and John knew, from Hell itself, the Devil was applauding his student, and as the candle drew nearer to John's eye its hot wax beginning to drip, Jim began to sing…_

"_Don't build your world arooooooound…Volcanoes melt you dooooown…"_

_And then the first drop fell…_

**A/N See my profile for a rundown explanation of the general theme of this story, a general moral and where I think it is going… **

**Thank to absolutely everyone who followed, reviewed, and all that, it really means a lot to me.**

**I am continuing this! **


	3. Deeper Deeper

_The ragged bone had torn through his calf and thigh, both his tibia and femur clearly visible, like blood smattered spears, yellowing like aging wood and still every bit as painful as the day he had awoken with them bursting through his skin, worse than any knife, it's pain deeper set then any fire. _

_Every cut, on his eyes, in his ears, on his bare back, every day becoming more and more like bees stings then non fatal wounds. _

_They had moved him in the night, different room (Bigger, with a table but resolutely padded, door thicker by, maybe three 3cm,smell crisp, air clean, recently cleaned possibly brand new, table metal and bolted to the floor, windowless and completely furbished with metal, no wood to be seen, not even the two chairs, thought the whole place slipped in and out of focus) and his slow and sluggish mind meant they had drugged him, but this drug did not stop the excruciating, murderous, searing, thumping, aching numbing and oh god what the hell was that noise? John just fix it John, fix me! Make it stop please please oh god no…_

_Crack. Crack. Crack. _

_Like the snapping of logs or brittle dried out sticks, they echoed through the room, interrupting thoughts, though watery because of his possibly ruined ears, the light dim and his body's stiffness prohibiting his neck's movement. His vision blurred by the drug they had given him, every noise was like point blank gun fire, the gray and black room in front of him, so he closed his eyes against the spinning. _

_Crack. Crack. CRACK._

_Further and further into his memory the sound protruded, ripping away his defenses and sending him into a cold sweat, drops pooling on his upper lip and brow. The cool air clung to his skin, and even though he was glad for the oxygen and its clarity, some part of him wished he was back in his earthy room, where things were quiet and he could just… Just think damn it… stop… no think Sherlock… I-ignore it… nothing is th-… Just…_

_Like the crushing of nuts._

_Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack._

_Like the cracking of bones…_

"_JUST MAKE IT STOP, JUST STOP IT JOHN? JOHN! MYCROFT? JUST I NEED IT TO STOP SO I CAN THINK!"He screamed the words into the room, moving against the chair he was tied to, wrenching the broken leg this way and that but the pain was nothing compared to the utter agony and unrelenting and constant drum of the cracking, matching his heartbeat and now pounding head._

_He knew deep down that he was suffering a panic attack and that no one was there but that cracking… That damn… God… Just stop it please…_

_He opened his eyes. He was not alone anymore… _

_Someone else was sitting opposite him, a black umbrella and a fancy suit, a mousy face and…_

"_Mycroft?" _

"_No one knows what it's like, to be the bad man… To be the sad man…" _

"_Mycroft? What… how did you…" _

_Mycroft stood and pulled out a knife._

"_To telling only lies…"_

_The knife was slowly coming closer as Mycroft grew ever larger in his plane of vision, his face glowing under the two bars of fluorescent lights there were on the ceiling sending his brother's face pale and ghostly. _

"_Mycroft what are you doing?" _

"_But my dreeeeeeeeeeeeeams aren't as empty, as my conscious seems to beeeeeeeee…" the song was strangely familiar, as though he had seen this before, in a dream or a memory, something like this something…_

_Crack. Crack. Crack._

"_I have hours… Only lonely… My love is vengeance…" The blade of the knife pressed against his raw throat, cutting his harsh and rushed breath in half, stopping his choked cry of his brother's name. _

"_That's never freeeeeeeeee…"_

_The blade cut deeper and deeper until Sherlock felt blood dripping down his front and then everything was gone, and death slid over him like the wings of a giant evil creature…_

_XxXxXxX_

"_Now, now Sherlock, the Who isn't that bad…" Jim pushed the glass of water closer to Sherlock's lips, as the detective thrashed feebly against his chair, pushing it closer to the table in the darkness, towards the words of the song, and the cracking that was real in this world, that he was having someone do in the back behind the detective, cracking a bunch of twigs. _

"_Come on Sherlock take a drink , you want it don't you?" _

_Sherlock rolled his head around, away from the water, which for the record was completely untainted in any way shape or form, slurring sounds together. _

_God, Jim thought, I should give people what he's on more often. What should I call it then? House 115. Yeaaaaah. House and Holmes… very funny Jim you should tell Sebastian that one…_

_Sherlock pulled up his relatively free arms, running them down his face and messing up his already greasy hair, groaning, coming round from his druggy dream… _

_Jim pressed the glass of water to his lips again, stopping Sherlock from turning his head away by forcing the glass to his lips harder, dragging up his lip to reveal his white teeth. _

_Sherlock opened his eyes._

_Tears began forming in the corners of his colorless eyes, the corners of his mouth pulling downwards and Sherlock cried and cried and cried, the knife print on his throat burning a hole in his skin as the specter of his brother pressed it down harder, and then the cracking was silent once more…_

_Jim Moriarty smiled as Sherlock wept. _

_He smiled with the toothy grin of the devil, demons crawling around his forked tongue, slipping into the world from the gates of Hell itself, bringing forth the devil's message…_

_The Devil wants Sherlock broken…_

_So broken he shall be…_

_A/N Sorry if this one gets confusing the Mycroft thing is a dream brought on by the new drug Jim is testing called House 115. The 115 comes from page 15, entry 1, from the blind banker. Forgot to mention, in the last chapter Jim sings the songs shake it out by Florence and the machine, and sings Damien Rice's Volcano. Here he sings Behind Blue eyes by The Who. I own nothing. _


	4. Him

_God only knows when he was going to get out. God only knew if he would. Between pain and cries alone in the night and times stuck in the world without thought, the realm of unconsciousness he found a lot of time to think about things._

_His betrayal was something he thought of often, and how he sold Sherlock out to Moriarty after only a few measly wounds, and now he was probably going through… John didn't even want to think about it. And yet in the hours of silence that followed Jim's absence, he found he could not stop the thoughts from penetrating his mind, and found that whenever he tried to eliminate them, he was more drawn._

_The Dr. began to cry in the silence._

_And then the door opened, and John could see the gun in his jacket and the flare in his hand, and the evil smile that he would never ever forget, that would be the ghost of his life, following him around the corner, laughing in the shadows, screaming in the darkness…_

_XxXxXxXxXxxX_

_Between the tears and hollow cries, the seconds it takes for tears to dry, Jim finds himself too far gone to stop…_

To: The Iceman

Sent: 5:09 A.M

HELP THEM THEY'RE DYING

_Several minutes later…_

From: The Iceman

Received: 5:14 A.M

I dare say I am willing to pay, or give you whatever it is you're after, as long as you cease and desist immediately, and return both my brother and Dr. Watson to 221B.

_But Jim didn't want anything, except two sobbing masses of broken flesh, memories of once great men, ghosts of their former selves._

To: The Iceman

Sent: 5:19 A.M

I want something you don't have the stones to give me. I want them broken. Goodbye Mr. Holmes.

_Jim turned back to John, who was silently crying, the torture he had chosen posing him more problems than expected: Fire burning at the stump that had once been his arm, the thing that had made him a good doctor, his left arm, the thing that made him, him. The hand he wrote with, the thing he shook hands with, the hand he held his drinks in, the one he used to scratch his nose, to catch, to throw, the hand he held his cell phone in. His hand, his arm. _

_Gone. _

_Now the only thing left was a sawed through bone, mangled red and black flesh that stank with the putrid stench that could only be the smell that encouraged predators to draw nearer, closer towards the dying prey, deeper into their rabid hunger, faster into the jaws of death. Subtle pain had replaced aching, and the aching, agony and nothing had come before the agony, nothing at all, he had not been alive before, death did not hold pain like this, the mental scars deeper than anything physical, life was the pain in this case. Life was not life. Not without pain. Greif, with its suffocating pressure was all well and good. Fear and its intoxicating choke hold was high on its own standard of excellence, but it was the burning in his arm that held the crown proudly upon its ugly head, its beady eyes laughing at the screams that echoed in his little room, that whispered in his ear a subtle script of lines to say, to make it stop oh god just stop please no more, make it end please oh god…_

_And now the fire was unbearable, licking and contorting around the flesh, and as his cells began to break down, as John himself began screaming, begging, pleading, shrieking for mercy, to Oh god just end it now, please make it stop, just, just please, oh god oh god oh god, Jim began to sing. _

"_Beyond the boundaries of your city's lights, stand the heroes waiting for your cries…" _

_John screamed louder, as the white hot flames began touching his bone, a heat wave on an already barren land, searing, charring, sweltering, sizzling, and for- oh god oh god! No no no no no no! PLEASE!_

"_On that day when you need your brothers and sisters to care, I'll be right there…"_

"_PLEASE NO! I'LL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT, PLEASE!"_

_Jim stopped his song and moved towards the screaming man, whose face was contorted in pain, pulled at by the flames, depicting the Devil's smile, Satan's grin, Hell's Happiness. _

"_What's that?" Jim pulled the flare away from John's arm and put his ear right up close to John's mouth so he could hear the nearly silent whisper as though the man was yelling it. _

"_I'll do…anything… just please…stop." John was out of breath, eyes closed tight, body shaking in a cold sweat. _

_Jim smiled and kissed the side of John's blood smattered head before standing up in the dark room. _

"_You see the problem with that is…" he said reigniting the flare and swooning as the screaming restarted, laughing in high cold tones as he exited the room, looking back at the doctor, well, former doctor, "This is the only thing I want." _

_He heard the screaming all the way down the hall... _

A/N Its short I know, but today you whump crazy people, you get a second bonus chapter free of charge!


	5. We were young

_Sherlock remembered the day when he got roommates very well, as well as could be conceived by him in his stage of trauma._

_It was well into the third week before Jim took Sherlock outside. One dank and dark day, full of rain and mud and miserable people and coworkers, Jim decided it was time to send Sherlock off the deep end. He arrived that morning, rain jacket on, a second in tow along with a pair of shoes and a shirt that were not completely destroyed. _

_Sherlock was asleep, deep down into a world of tortured nightmares, quiet tear tracks leaving their salt on his face, and Jim damn near thought he would leave him there, let him sleep for a day, take some pictures and send them to Mycroft but… No… he had a plan. _

_He went over to the chair Sherlock was sitting on, undid the handcuffs that were the only thing that had been keeping the detective from attacking him or escaping, besides the obvious fact that you know, Jim thought, his compound fractures._

"_Sherlock, wakey wakey." Jim stepped back as Sherlock exploded awake, jarring his limbs and crying out as his leg moved quickly, his free hands grasping around the bone for the first time in three weeks, putting pressure on the spots that obviously hurt the most._

_Oh god, I should keep him as a pet, Jim thought because god he loved the face Sherlock was making. _

_Jim threw the shirt, coat and shoes onto the table in front of Sherlock who looked at them._

"_We're going outside." Sherlock squinted at Jim. Sherlock said nothing. _

_Jim pulled out his phone and looked at the time. _

"_Don't you want to? See the world again? You remember what outside looks like don't you?" _

_Sherlock nodded slowly._

_Sherlock opened his mouth a little; his eyes wide and he looked down at his broken bones. _

_Jim sighed and tossed a cane onto the table as well_

_Sherlock threw the black shirt over his head, tied the laces on the boots Jim had given him, which were thankfully his size, and propped most of his weight on his right leg then the cane as he stood, rather unsteadily. Jim cringed as he heard the detective's back crack, and gestured out the door. _

_It took 5 minutes to get outside, but when they finally did, Sherlock's face lit up in a way Jim found almost sinful. The rain was pouring beyond belief, thunder crackling as clouds swirled in the sky like smoke to a fire, rain hitting their upturned faces like hailstones, plopping onto the wet grass or puddles, the scent of wetness thick in the air like it had been in the first room. _

_Sherlock was happier now then he had been for three weeks, but when Jim said it was time to go back in he went without a fight. _

_He now knew that whenever he fought, bad things happened to him._

_A smell halfway down the hall of the building alarmed Sherlock slightly. The smell of rotting flesh, which he almost automatically dismissed as his own leg, which throbbed and…_

_But… No… Come on… Sherlock… you can do it, make a… deduction…_

"_Regrets collect like old friendsssssss…" Jim smiled as he sang to Sherlock, and under the bleak light of the hall Sherlock looked around at the white cement brick walls, the steely silver doors all along the walls, and subconsciously he wondered if John was behind one of them, but as days went by, John was becoming_

_No… Think damn it… just… think… no… god… please just…_

"_Here to relive your darkest momeeeeents…" _

_Sherlock began to panic as Jim neared the chorus, because he had been taught that when the chorus starts… _

_He kept hobbling along beside Jim, who stopped and opened the door for Sherlock. Sherlock did not want to go in. He wanted to find John. Jim nodded into the room as though trying to motion a dog to go into its kennel. _

_Sherlock did not move, just looked down the halls, trying to listen, even though his ears had adopted a steady aching._

_Why can't I just… think… Just… under…stand… please… where's John… _

_But he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud, his throat raw from screaming. Jim stopped singing for a moment, only a moment, giving Sherlock a warning stare._

"_Sherlock… we're done here… go back inside now."_

_But Sherlock did not move, did not even realize Jim had been speaking, as he tried to remember something he had long ago forgotten, something he needed to tell John… he just… needed… to find… what… what is this?... what's ha-happening?..._

_The needle injected its drug into Sherlock's blood stream before the detective could even react, pulling down his eyelids, and within seconds of its injection Sherlock fell to the floor, groaning as he stabbed his spear like bones into the ground point first, sending a shock through his body._

_Oh my, this is even better, I thought he would be scared the instant it happened but oh my, this is really good Jim, oh my indeed…Make him happy, make him think it's getting better but oh no… make him hurt Jim. _

_XxXxX_

_When Sherlock awoke handcuffed to the chair again, his leg throbbing with a stinging painful vengeance, a head ache pounding in his skull, his room the same as before, but Sherlock soon realized he was not alone. _

_There was a little blond haired boy and a girl around the same age sitting opposite him. Attached to the boy's chest was a piece of white printer paper that read:_

_Hi._

_My name is Samuel; I love my mommy and my daddy._

_I like Transformers._

_I wanted to be an astronaut._

_And you couldn't save me. _

_The boy's mouth was agape to release what had been his final scream, his death may have taken place hours ago, but Sherlock did not know anymore, too distracted by the large portion of skull that was missing from his head, that gave the viewer a wonderful sight that was the inner workings. Samuel's eyes were wide as his death had approached him, though now they were cold and dead looking, his skin as pale as the paper that lay taped to his still chest, where just underneath his heart had stopped beating, and he wasn't Samuel anymore… He was just… gone. _

_Sherlock did not want to look at the little girl, did not want to see her face, did not want to see the damage that he was powerless to stop, the damage he had practically done the death he had…_

_But he looked. _

_Hi._

_My name is Casey._

_I love my mommy and daddy._

_I like to read and draw pictures for my teachers._

_I wanted to be a vet._

_And you couldn't save me. _

_Her jaw was gone, the whole bottom half of her mouth just ripped away, taking with it the bottom half of what Sherlock thought would have been perfect teeth, white teeth to clash with dark brown curls, and open, cold, dead, green eyes, that remained as still and her heart, her heart that had stopped to show him what death was, what death really was, and oh god it was all his fault, nothing but his fault, oh god no…_

_And then Jim was crawling out of the shadows, walking around in his long sleeved shirt, circling like a vulture, like the scavenger at the devil's feet, only more than the sorry spawn that fed on the fears of others, but an assassin that created them, above all but Satan himself, higher then flames of Hell. _

_Sherlock's Punishment. _

_Satan's Finest._

"_Do you feel it Sherlock? Can you feel them staring at you?" Jim walked behind Sherlock, hands in the back pockets of his jeans, clutching the pocket knife, falling in and out of shadow, slipping between the echoes of memory, etching his words into Sherlock's damaged ears, painting himself on the inside of his captive's skull. _

_He lunged suddenly, pressing the dull side of the blade against Sherlock's jugular, feeling the fast and frenzied pulse in the cold room, Sherlock's ragged and labored breathing against the inside of his wrist. Sherlock wriggled a little, barely trying as his leg throbbed._

"_I. Didn't. Get. An. Answer." Hissed Jim, his lips nearly touching Sherlock's ear as he felt his words hit the slowly dying creature that was Sherlock's brain, as though listening to stones hit a brick wall, each one fell on reluctantly listening ears, making their meaning, releasing their poison, spreading like disease._

_Sherlock nodded slowly. Jim released the knife and flipped the blade back into its socket. _

_He continued to walk around the dead children, stopping behind them and placing a hand on each of their cold shoulders. _

_Sherlock looked away, clearly trying to hold back a nasty bout of vomit. Jim realized how rarely he fed Sherlock, but remained content with the fact that he had at least managed to feed him three times. _

_Jim looked directly into Sherlock's averted eyes, which were empty and cold, distant in every respect of the word. _

"_They died because of you; their parents aren't parents anymore, just people. No children, alone in life. Just like you." Jim leaned forward, squaring his jaw, staring deep into the metaphorical soul Sherlock was supposed to have. _

"_Samuel and Casey are dead. Because of you."_

_Sherlock takes a sharp breath in, tears forming in his eyes again, looking away, not staring into the cold eyes of the children, not the cold eyes of Jim but at anything else anything at all. _

"_LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING TO YOU!" Jim screamed across the table, slamming his fist onto its metal surface, staring around at the darkly padded room, without windows, only one door, and these bodies, laughing to himself at the insanity of it all. _

_Sherlock closed his eyes, and shook his head slowly, it's not real, he thought, John will wake you up soon, and everything will be ok, just a bad dream, this isn't real, nothing is real…_

"_Who shall it be next then Sherlock? Lestrade's kids? His daughters? Huh, how would you like seeing Regan and Kate sitting there with Casey and Samuel. Well of course Lestrade would hate you forever; he loves them more than anything." _

_Sherlock shut his eyes tighter, no not them, he thought, I met them once and they were nice… _

_Strong hands gripped his jaw and his eyes flew open as he was pulled forward to look Samuel and Casey in the face, the flesh that had been torn and left agape, red and sickly, the smell close up nearly unbearable, like the carcass of a cow left out in the sun. The eyes of the children burned into his skin and seared at his heart, pulling it through the floor and into Hell itself. _

_Jim's voice was a cold whisper in his ear. _

"_For you. All of this for you." _

_He let go of Sherlock's face, and leaned up against the wall as the detective sobbed heavily, smiling to himself the Devil's grin, as he looked up at one of the security cameras, winking as he knew the whole team, Sebastian, Carlos, Norrington, and Walter, were applauding his Grammy performance, wolf whistling, clapping hands, as they knew full well: The great Sherlock Holmes was crumbling, like the ruins of a long forgotten castle, like an ancient mountain, a rock slide on the crest of a rolling hill, destined to fall, foretold a fate beyond horrific, alone in the rain of fire. _

_Alone is what he has. Alone protects him. Alone is what he has. Alone is what he is. _

_The Devil's messenger. _

_Satan's finest._

_Hell's Right Hand._

_As salty tears, forgotten sorrows, intruding emotions, and trembling sobs ached through the air, Jim began to sing. _

"_And its hard to dance, with the devil on your back, so shake him out, shake him out, oooh whooooa oooooh…" _


	6. Silly little torture songs

_Sherlock did not know what they had given him, all he knew now was that Casey and Samuel, were talking to him in hushed tones, whispering in his scratched ears, laughing in solemn voices, swirling in a mass of colors and images that could not possibly be there._

_The corpses of the dead children sat in their grotesque glory opposite him, their flesh falling from their faces as they decomposed in the room with him, stinking the air with their scent, and drilling that damn song into his thoughts, every minute closer to the edge, every minute closer to breaking him, every second closer to his heart. _

_Every minute his heart burned hotter…_

"_Regrets collect like old friends…" said Casey in his ear, her low and girly voice cold ion his ear…_

"_Here to relive our darkest moments…" Samuel whispered his ear. Sherlock thrashed his head around and around, trying to flush out the voices…_

"_I can see no way, I can see no way…" _

_Stop it, stop this I don't want to listen anymore, please no, god not that song, please no no no no!_

_Casey was trailing a hand around his eye, pushing on the lid with a stubby thumb, her jaw falling away in slow motion as she sang to him, and as Sherlock looked at her, the focus in his eyes fading in and out, twisting and turning in the darkness. _

"_And all of the ghouls come out to play…"_

_The guilt was ripping at his insides like an estranged monster, glowering up at him with the eyes of the devil, swallowing his heart in its large and jagged mouth, teeth gnawing at the flesh and licking away his sanity with a forked tongue. _

"_Stop, stop, please, no, I'll do anything, just stop, John? What's happening to John? Please, please make it stop, just make the noise stop I can't no PLEASE NO! MYCROFT? PLEASE MAKE IT END!" _

_Sherlock convulsed and wretched, pulling at his restraints with shaking hands, twisting his injured leg in his attempts to flee, rubbing his ears on his shoulder to rid his mind of the song that etched into his head. _

_And in his surveillance room, Moriarty laughed, watching his captive struggle on the grainy black and white screen. He was close, but not close enough, Sherlock was not broken, completely destroyed, not begging for the clutches of death yet, not simply wishing for the end. _

_Not willing to shake hands in Hell. _

_But Moriarty knew, even as he watched, the fires of Hell were burning away Sherlock's heart. _

_Burning away the world's only Consulting Detective, as though he was nothing more than a twig, being devoured in an endless blaze…_

_XxXxX_

_John was so, so sorry. _

_She had been staring at him, whimpering, when he woke up, the IV in her arm, the terror in her eyes. _

_It had been his final choice. _

_The gun or the girl. _

_It had been something beyond cruelty, beyond absolute definition of malice, but even as Jim watched the preschoolers playing, trying to find Kate Lestrade, trying to find the linchpin in John's sanity when something made him stop. _

_He wanted John dark, empty, cold. _

_Nearly suicidal, but not yet willing to pull the trigger or make the cut, or take the step off, or swallow the pill. _

_But not dead._

_Lestrade was one of John's best friends, and Jim didn't want Lestrade out for blood. _

_No… The other girl maybe? The one with light blond hair and blue eyes, playing on the slide? Yes… Her… _

_A record showed her name was Chloe. _

_He enjoyed writing her note. _

Hi.

My name is Chloe. I have a dog named Tippy.

I love my mommy and daddy.

I want to be a dentist.

Will you save me?

_John had known the instant he woke up that the bright yellow liquid in the IV drip was not urine, but venom of some kind, ready to plant itself on her cells and feed away like an insect, still in its bag, not dripping into her blood stream. And it was then when he began to accept death, almost felt it sliding over him in an icy shadow, calling his name in the voice of a soldier, calling him back to the desert. _

_Pulling him down to Hell. _

_Jim opened the door, holding the gun. John noticed it was different, the same model he had in his drawer, black and shining in the dark room. _

"_I want the gun." _

_Jim was not surprised, holding the gun forward, letting the barrel press against John's temple, running coolly on his hot face. _

_Chloe began to cry. _

"_Say goodbye John Watson." Said Jim, almost sorry about having to kill him. John looked up at Chloe and smiled reassuringly. _

_But as minutes passed, and the bullet did not come, John began to worry, looking over at Chloe's IV._

_Venom was dripping. _

_Chloe was twitching. _

_"NO!" Cried John, thrashing, trying to stand, damn it only his right hand and legs were tied and yet, as Chloe was less than two feet away from him, looking at him with sad eyes, round face tear streaked. _

"_Why d-doeth it h-h-h-hurt Mithter?" Her lisp was choked up in sobs and stuttering as the venom worked quickly, attacking her nervous system, causing spasms and… and… _

_John couldn't think anymore, didn't care about the gun that had been pushed away, or the song Jim was singing, just about this little girl, this girl who was no more then 7, and she was dying, dying because of him, and he couldn't save her, and she was dying right in front of him and he was a doctor and, and and…_

"_Don't build your world around, volcanoes melt you dooooooown…" _

_Chloe began to scream. _

_John began to cry. _

"_I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, please forgive me, no, please don't dir, please god no, breath!" _

_Behind him, Jim sang. _

"_What I am to you, is not real…"_

_Chloe began to convulse. _

_John began to beg. _

"_Jim, Jim please, please don't fix it, please don't do this, look at her, please no, no please not her, take me, please." _

_Facing him with a stony face, Jim sang._

"_What I am to you, you do not need…" _

_Within the hour, Chloe would be dead. _

_Within the hour, John Watson would welcome Hell with open arms._

_And watching it all, Jim would sing. _

"_Give me miles, and miles of mountains and I'll ask for the seeeeeeeaaaaaaa…" _

_XxXxXxX_

_Well into the fifth week after the disappearance, Mycroft received a text. _

From: James Moriarty

To: Mycroft Holmes

Three days. That's all I need now. Are you sure you want to witness the damage?

_Satan's finest. _

_Hell's right hand. _

_The devil's chessman, playing the pawns to win, fighting the war with words. _

_Winning the battle with hate…_


	7. Act 7: The villain exits

_They were both too lost to notice they were in the same room together, too lost within themselves to notice anything really. _

_Sherlock stared again into the deep eyes of death that came with Casey and Samuel, while John saw an imaginary snake gnawing away at a little blond corpse. _

_And all the while, both men could hear their songs. _

_And while in a separate room they sat in company, unrestrained, alone without Jim, all they could do was stare._

_Jim thought he really was genius for thinking up this way of seeing their progress, to see if they would even notice each other._

_And as Jim watched, as he entered the key code that kept the door unlocked, he knew deep down, that Sherlock was crashing in on himself like a poorly built bridge, stretching over the waters of insanity… John had been broken, he was dead pan, no life behind his eyes, no arm to call his own, and a dead girl staining his ledger along with however many lives he had taken at war. _

_But even so, Jim thought only one more session would be required to burn the heart right out of Mr. Holmes, leaving him nothing, only the painting of a memory. And all it would take was a little song…_

_XxXxXxX_

_I… sorry… feel sorry… can't think… don't want to… Casey and Samuel… nobody… don't want to talk anymore… don't want to live… done… no not me… only them… don't want to see anymore… don't want anything… just want to sleep… can't though, no can't won't let me… _

"_Hello Sherlock." Said Jim pleasantly as he walked in, closing the door quietly behind him, and taking a seat opposite Sherlock, the corpses taken away in the night while Sherlock slept. Sherlock said nothing, but looked up as though surprised someone was talking to him. _

"_How do you feel?" Jim was careful to sound innocent, to lean forward as he asked Sherlock his question, trying to make his eyes soft. Sherlock just looked at him sadly then looked away, into the corner of the room. _

"_What are you looking at?" _

_Sherlock pointed to the corner of the room, silent, dark. _

"_Oh you see Casey and Samuel don't you?" Sherlock looked at him again, and nodded curtly, staring into Jim's eyes, looking into Satan's helper, but his own gaze holding nothing, Sherlock's light eyes empty, almost white. _

"_Why did you have to kill them Sherlock?" Jim cocked his head and Sherlock shook his head. I didn't do it, his eyes seemed to scream, and it wasn't me. _

"_Why did you kill them Sherlock? I watched you do it. Why?" Jim pressed the subject, but Sherlock put his free hands over his ears, bringing his good leg's knee up to his chest, rocking back and forth, trying to block out the sounds of Jim and the children. Jim walked around the table and gently pried Sherlock's hands away from his crusty and cut ears. Sherlock started to cry. _

"_Why did you do such a bad thing Sherlock?" Sherlock shook his head, no I didn't do it, Jim just clicked his tongue. Oh god how he just wanted to rip and play with Sherlock's leg, how he wanted to hear the screaming again, he wanted it so so so bad! But no, he had to keep to the plan, mental scars to match the physical. Well, he wouldn't play yet…_

"_You are bad Sherlock, Casey and Samuel knew that when you were ripping them to shreds, laughing as they screamed in your ears." _

_Sherlock kept shaking his head, crying, mouthing the word no, but still completely silent. I never did anything, his silence screamed, I didn't!_

"_Do you want to be bad?" _

_Sherlock shook his head. "N-n-n-no. D-d-don't w-w-w-w-want t-to-" Sherlock was cut off by Jim, who bent down, and wrenched and pulled at the torn bone, felt the heat radiating off of it, felt the fires of Hell licking at his flesh, burning away all flesh, boiling all blood that pooled anew onto the floor, the devil twisting at Sherlock's throat as he screamed. _

_Pain beyond pain, beyond all possible imagining and possible understanding. All was slipping away as Sherlock's eyes streamed red hot tears, the world going dark as Jim sang his evil song, gleeful in the eyes of pain, slipping over the edge of insanity, too far gone to stop…._

_And on either side of him, Casey and Samuel sang too…._

"_And all of the ghouls come out to play."_

_The world was slipping away, dripping out of his head as he heard the lyrics that interrupted distant deductions, finally putting his mind into a wakeful sleep, though it was not the least bit restful, and was tortured, wrecked, savaged and rampaged through. And slowly he could feel his mind breaking, deductions he could not form becoming even harder to remember, his thoughts slowing until the only thing that was left in the screaming, the song that had become the face of Jim Moriarty. Jim and his laugh, his evil little grin, the way his shirt fell on his light but strong frame, this room and its simplicity, the other room and everything it had, the dreams of Mycroft and John, John, John, John. _

_And Casey and Samuel, his first victim's, the bodies that stared at him with empty, empty eyes, glaring into his thoughts, singing his song…_

_And John's betrayal, that brought everything here, that placed him in this position. _

_And the echoing, echoing silence. _

_The vastness that had been his brain, the space that had been filled with knowledge, deductions, memories, people, voices, sights, sounds, everything that had been his work, now emptied from his brain._

_Until all that was left, was this place. _

"_Every demon wants his pound of flesh, but I like to keep some things to myself…" Sang Jim._

_And his haze, near unconsciousness from the pain that still pounded in his leg even though it had been released, in the near sleep he resided in, where nightmares and dreams became hazy but real, he said the breaking words. _

_And as Jim heard Sherlock speak, as he heard the twisted, hushed, pained and sleepy sounds, he knew at once he had won._

"_I like to keep my issues strong, but it's always darkest before the dawn…" whispered Sherlock, passing out as Jim laughed._

_Sherlock Holmes was dead…_

_XxXxXxX_

_(The door creaks open, and Jim takes one final breath of fresh air before entering into the stink of John's room, where his arm, despite being cleaned on a daily basis to avoid infection, still rotting away, and showing simple signs of minor infection, but Jim wasn't worrying about that now. He had lasted this long without an arm, why not last a few more hours?)_

"_Hello John." (Jim speaks in a cheerful tone )_

_(Silence) _

"_How are you today?" _

_(Silence)_

"_Do you want to know a secret?" _

_(Silence, immobilization, nothing) _

_(Jim approaches John and whispers so close to John's ear, John can feel the little whiskers on Jim's mouth tickling his ear, his voice silky.)_

"_I just killed Sherlock Holmes." (Jim opens his eyes wide and laughs.)_

" _Volcanoes meeeeelt yooooooou dooooooownnnn…"(The door creaks as Jim leaves.)_

_(And John begins to sob heavily, and Chloe laughs.)_

_(And on the inside John died too.)_

_XxXxXxXxX_

_Jim sent the coordinates to Mycroft. He packed up his things, told the men on sight to do the same, dismantled all cameras left the doors unlocked, the carcasses where they had been left, all blood stains as they had been. _

_Now the two were all that's left. _

_Jim made one final pop in to check on them, and left the final seed of insanity to stew in their heads: I'll be seeing you soon…_

_Soon enough he would be too._

_The devil's messenger was not yet done._

_Hell's right hand one hand more to deal._

_Satan's son ready to play his knight._

_Demon's master ready to send his hoards to work._

_After all most scars heal, but they do, in Jim's mind, bleed so much faster when reopened…_


	8. Before the storm

_Should you ask Mycroft how his month and a bit had gone he would have lied and said it went fine. _

_Well not if you were Greg Lestrade. _

_During the weeks after the disappearance, Greg Lestrade had been the only one who knew just how worried and frantic Mycroft had been, the only one who knew just what level of worry the usually stoically calm and clean Mycroft had become (To the point where Mycroft actually stopped eating, and lost enough sleep to kill three healthy druids.) so obsessed with finding his brother and friend, he even consulted a few criminals, paying good money for terrible information._

_So yes if you did ask Mycroft Holmes how he had been the past 6 weeks, he would have said it had been fine._

_Ask Greg how Mycroft's week was going? _

_Greg would have told you frantic. _

_But not nearly as frantic as Mycroft was when he looked at a single message._

_And then turmoil began, terror and relief colliding, and Mycroft knew that his brother was dead…_

_And it was then when he would finally stop lying, and tell the truth._

_XxXxXxX_

_Ask Molly Hooper how her week had been, and she would have said fine. _

_She was of course lying._

_And the only one, who knew she was scared, truly terrified for the two people she had come to love, was , well herself._

_She knew nothing of search plans, or the real kidnapping._

_No one had even bothered to tell her._

_Little Molly, the trusty morgue worker, the one who was there to listen if you just needed to talk, gentle gentle Molly who would never hurt a living soul. Molly who had been there to help in the time before John, who had accepted all the abuse, who had been helpful, who had loved him from afar, had been one of the last to know. _

_Sure she texted Sherlock from now and then, even had a small pile of body parts for him to take home and experiment on, been past his flat once or twice on her way home, and even as the bodies began to pile up, and she was faced with one of those snotty Scotland Yard Forensic Pricks, she did not even bother to ask where he was, nor had anyone bothered to tell her. _

_Molly had only been told by Greg when she had enquired after bumping into Greg at a Tesco about how 'gosh there haven't been a lot of cases lately have there Greg? Haven't seen Sherlock for ages!' _

'_What do you mean Molly; there have been loads, robberies, rapes, abductions, murders galore and the odd terrorist attack. You mean you don't know why Sherlock and John haven't been around?' _

'…_no?...' _

_And you can imagine how it went from there, Molly had a near fatal dose of reality, and had to take a few days off, and tried to contact Mycroft to find out more, about what happened but… nothing._

_Molly became skittish afterwards. _

_If you asked Molly how she had been doing, she would have said fine._

_But that was when the fragility of life began to hit her, began to make an impact on her life, that she would finally stop lying and say the truth._

_XxXxXxXxX_

_If you asked Greg Lestrade how he had been the past 6 weeks, he would have said 'could be better'. _

_And that was not the honest truth of course. _

_If you asked him why, he would have flat out lied and said his ex was sniffing at his door, he was in debt, and he had to work two jobs._

_All of the above were of course lies, his ex was very happy with Brock the P.E teacher, he was not in debt, the very thought was preposterous and his job paid very well. _

_He would lie to save time and valuable energy by feeding you a less then convincing lie. _

_But inside, Greg was deeply worried. _

_The car they had found had blood all over the front tires, Sherlock's blood. All Greg knew was that he was worried for the addict, the arrogant, over obnoxious prick that he so often found at his crime scenes, worried for the shorter, nicer more tolerable man that often came with him, worried for Mycroft, who he was seeing more and more often now that this case was taking up so much of his spare time, and worried for himself as well._

_He was not solving cases, and his boss knew it, and if he didn't find Sherlock intact and ready to solve a case, he would bear witness as Dimmock took over his position… _

_But it was as he finally found what he had desperately been looking for, that he finally stopped lying to everyone, and himself._

_He was not as worried about himself as he was for them…_

_XxXxxxXXXxx_

_Should you ask Mrs. Hudson how her last 6 weeks had been; she would have been completely honest with you, because 'really dear, at my age you begin to understand that lying gets you absolutely no where.'_

_She would have told you that two of her quirkiest tenants weren't around, their rent was being paid by Sherlock's older brother, the flat was constantly being bombarded with investigators and detectives, other tenants were being bothered by all the activity and her hip was getting worse by the minute. _

_Oh yes she was worried for 'dear little Sherlock' and 'that saint John'. Worried sick, worried to the point where she had to take a lot more medication, and ended up going to see Mrs. Turner a lot more just so maybe she could escape all the noise. _

_She was frightened for them. _

_But more than ever, as she was finally told about the revelations Mycroft had had, she would start lying to people's faces when they asked her how they were doing. _

_She would tell them they were doing fine. _

_That would be her first lie to them._

_XxXxXxXxX_

_Dark… Casey… Samuel… Nothing… bad… me… bad… cold… dark… talking… can't sleep… won't let me… hurts… don't want to… can't stop… need to think… can't… just stop…. Help… me….don't want to be bad… can't stop… please… don't want to live…_

_XxXxXxXxX_

_I did that… Chloe was in my place… four hours… snake venom… my fault… could have stopped… just too far… couldn't help… didn't know what to do… Sherlock… my fault too… did wrong… I have tried… so hard… to do right…_


	9. And then they found him

_Sherlock was only vaguely aware of the noise around him. _

_People were here, many people. _

_People in bright yellow jackets, people wearing hats to keep their ears safe from the cold, some with stethoscopes, and some with… (gulp) guns…_

_He didn't move when they opened the door. He didn't move when they yelled to others: "We've got a live one!" _

_But he did however, move when one of them touched him. _

_It was in truth a gentle touch, the brush of fingers on his shoulder, but it was enough to send Sherlock into a frantic scare, and he writhed and squirmed away from the fingers, moaning as pain bloomed and blossomed in his leg. _

"_Sir, can you talk?" _

_The words struck Sherlock's dormant brain like a gunshot, so loud and boisterous in the thick and sticky silence, the words finding very little meaning where once they would have found everything._

_Talk? He hadn't talked in a very long time…_

"_Sir, please, if you could tell us what's wrong we could be more useful in our examination." A young man stepped around to see Sherlock's face, which he did his best not to cringe at, though some of the discomfort shone through his paramedic act. _

_I… can do this… Thought Sherlock. _

"_Hhhhh… Hhhhhh. Hi." He managed to croak out, his parched throat aching, his voice a hollow whisper. _

_The young man smiled. "Hi. Now, does your head or neck hurt?" _

_The man's name tag said Owen. Owen had soft sandy features, blue eyes and a distinctly winded look about him. _

_Another Sherlock would have said from going all around London helping the gravely sick or injured. He would have also said that the man had only just finished his third year of residency, had a wife but no children, spent the previous night drinking with said wife and discussing the prospect of children, which seemed quite good given the fact that his wife was a photographer and he was a paramedic though she had obviously avoided the topic of small people running loose in their one bedroom apartment and the fact that at the moment they were saving up to go on their second honeymoon which had been eagerly awaited. _

_But this Sherlock was too empty to say or see much of anything. _

"_Sir? Your head and neck. Any pain?"_

_Sherlock nodded. _

_Truthfully, his head and neck had been aching for what seemed to him the entire time he had been … wherever he was now… for… however long he had been wherever he was now. _

_Which he assumed was a long time. _

"_Okay, on s scale of one to ten, how bad is it?" Owen probed with his finger to check Sherlock's pulse, which was steady and even, beating strong. _

"_7." Sherlock whispered. _

_Owen turned his head away, to the open door, where Sherlock's sensitive ears could pick up movement and bustling. Sherlock was suddenly struck with terror, terror and fear that he had forgotten JOHN!_

"_The other man, the other man here." Sherlock tugged gently on Owen's sleeve as the man went up to yell for a neck brace outside of the room. _

"_He's alive." _

_Alive! Sherlock's mouth curled into a lucrative smile. Alive… He was alive! But Owen did not say anything else. So John must be, critical… _

_They fastened a neck brace around his throat, put a loose splint around his leg and lifted him slowly onto a stretcher, pulling him away from the room. As they passed a somewhat endless number of rooms, they passed one with people running in and out of it, people yelling for more sedative, a bloodied fist and anguished yells echoing through the halls. _

_A needle brushed the inside of Sherlock's arm and then everything was black, and dark and still…_

_XxX_

_A/N Yeah I know… "You haven't been updating" And "This chapter is really short what the heck!"_

_Sorry I am trying ! I swear! _


	10. Fix it for me

Fix him. Please gods just fix him.

Don't let him…

Doctors lie all the time…

He had been conscious when they brought him in… they just want to scare me into… into thinking he'll die again…

He can't.

No.

I won't allow it.

I am a high standing in the British Government, my name is Mycroft Holmes, I am a good man, I care for my mother even in her old age, I take care of my co-workers, I am a kind, clean, caring person and _my brother cannot die today_ _. _

…

…

But they were rushing… Sherlock had been mumbling, saying he… that he….

No.

Just… no.

…

…

This coffee is dreadful…

Is it raining out?

…

…

Go away Lestrade…

I don't want to talk to you!

…

…

It's been too long.

They said the surgery was routine, take less than three hours for everything, but it's been 5.

What are they doing in there?

What if they… what if he…

No.

Mycroft, stop it.

…

Should I go and see what's keeping them?

…

…

…

…

No…

…

NO!

No!

Please god…

Fix him for me…

…

They are lying.

They said they could fix it.

There has to be something I can do.

It… I…

…

…

No.

…

No…

…

Don't leave me behind, brother.

**A/N Oh dear… a complication in surgery perhaps? A death? And what of dear Mr. Watson? I know, I take forevvvvaaa to update, but hey! I have a life. Sort of. But! The next chapter… Ooooohhhhh… People gonna pray and crawl…**


	11. Beautiful Lies

_**A/N Hi… I sort of want to dedicate this chapter to my best friend. She lent me her name, though I didn't use it for a lover like I promised, but told me a beautiful lie anyway. Cheers Chloe. **_

_**Warning! Vulgar language…**_

Dim lights behind the lids of his eyes wake him.

He slowly becomes aware of himself, his thin spidery fingers as they lie against a cool and feather light bed sheet, his toes that lay immobile and cold. He feels his dry mouth, parched lips, and leaden eyelids. He feels a sharp pain in his head, though he does not cry out for help. Somehow he knows he has felt a pain much worse than this.  
And what of the sounds he hears?

He hears bustling close by, footsteps, the echoes of people, whispers, and a voice over the intercom. Someone is calling for a surgeon…

He is in a hospital.

"_**Hello?"**_

That voice… it comes from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. In the vastness of his mind, he hears it, a soft female voice, yes he is sure. But where is it? Does he go to it? What waits for him in this hospital?

"_**Mr. Holmes?"**_

He wants to go to this voice. __

But no, the voice is getting further and further away, as though he is falling into a dark world filled with haunting shadows. Slowly his thoughts leave him, and he can no longer feel his fingers and toes, his parched lips go numb and there is a buzzing in his ears. Instead the feeling he had is replaced with cold, then with hot, then with pain…

"_**Sherlock? Wake up." **_

But he is too late, the voice is gone. And then, there is nothing but pain…

XxX

There was nothing before the lake.

Nothing at all.

No pain.

No thought.

Nothing.

No guiding voice to lead him through the darkness, just this…This lake.

It was smooth, its shiny surface reflecting grey, churning sky above. Pebbles and rocks of all different shapes and sizes littered and pockmarked the ground, smooth and round from years of being washed over by the water. Snow capped mountains could be seen in the distance, and he could see pine trees standing tall and straight on the other side, across the glassy surface.

He wasn't sure how deep it got, or where exactly it was, but he was happy here.

He walked over to some driftwood and sat atop it, folding his hands in his lap and watched the ripples of fish bobbing at the surface until…

Something was happening to the lake.

Its calm surface began to sway and buck with waves that lapped against the rocky shore, growing into white caps, froth begging for land as they swayed in and out. The sky began to crackle with blue lightning, clouds beginning to swirl menacingly, turning first blue then purple as the eye of the coming storm began to center over him as he stood, frozen to place with terror. Animals began to whoop and screech from the pine trees, and the rocks began to turn into crawling skittering crabs as a steady fast rain began to fall from the opening heavens.

His paradise was crumbling.

And with it, so was he…

And then, from the hell that had broken free of its prison, came a voice.

"_**John?" **_

Oh yes, god yes, help me, help!

"_**John you have to wake up now."**_

Wake up?

"_**You've slept long enough John."**_

I'm not ruddy sleeping you fool! Get me out of here. Umbrella, anyone?

"_**John? John!?" **_

And then, the rain turned to acid, the crabs began to pinch and something horrible with icy claws grabbed him from behind and began to drag him into the icy water.

Deeper and deeper the creature took him, cold like a vice on his screaming lungs. Fish scattered as they watched him sink, the weight on him back like a rock, speeding up his sink. Blood began to raise from his chest, where searing burning pain was being applied to the sensitive flesh, claws raking their way over his heart. Bubbles rose from his screams and his lungs began to wilt.

And then, as he hit the icy bottom, and the hated creature slunk away, darkness encroached, and he was gone.

Gone from paradise…

Gone from hell…

Gone.

XXX

When he awoke for the second time, he was cold.

For some reason, his mouth wouldn't work either, so he couldn't call out to anyone that he was cold. He shivered against the linens of his bed. He made a soft growling noise, testing his throat, though deciding almost instantly that he wouldn't be doing that again, as it seared with fresh pain.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes. 'Bout time you joined us."  
Something was folding open his eyelids, and shining a bright light into his brain, though he is not conscious enough to even see it. The fingers fly over him, bending his good leg back and forth, pulling down the lobe of his ear and examining the inside of his eardrum, plunging down the front of his coarse hospital gown and pressing the cold and sterile stethoscope to his chest, and listening for a second to the sound of his slow and steady heartbeat.

"Well Mister Holmes… Quite a turn you've given us." A plastic spoon forces his lips apart and freezing ice chunks fall to his tongue and melt, tantalizing his dormant mind with the thought of water.

"You are heavily sedated, because while you may be able to feel and hear me, you are in a word, broken. Your right leg was… shattered beyond any reasonable repair, though with the help of a donor you have a newly reconstructed tibia and fibula, though I am sorry to say that nothing can be done for your femur. I will expand on my diagnosis when you are fully awake. But on the side, your eardrums were severely damaged, but we believe we have repaired them sufficiently so that there is only a slight change from your previous ability to hear. As for your…erm… cuts and abrasions… you will have a sufficient amount of scarring but we did what we could…" The spoon left his lips. He heard the Doctor get up and leave him.

He was too groggy to really understand what she had just said to him, but one thing sunk deep into his hazy mind and stuck: Her voice…

It had been the one from his dream.

XxX

John did not wake.

"Why aren't you waking him up you twat!?"

"Please Inspector Lestrade! You don't know the full story."

"Then make a lovely mess for me then and _spill your beans_."

And the scene went a little like this…

_Between the paramedics in the halls and the yelling and the needles and the "sir this will hurt" and the "please hold still" and the "Can I get an IV?" John found time to look into a corner and see…Chloe. _

_She was there, playing with a rattlesnake… as she often did when she and John were alone… Her little blue dress was a little tattered around the hem, her big blue eyes looking deep into the snake's, hands twisting around its coiled body as it twisted and undulated like smoke in her grasp…_

_Around him people are bustling, his room remains unchanged. But then they stop, they stare as he begins to sing to the snake a song he knows too well by now… _

"_Don't hold yourself like that… you'll hurt your knees…" _

_The paramedics ignored him of course. _

_But later, in the ambulance, Chloe reappeared face falling to pieces, the snake crawling in and out of her eye sockets and out of her screaming mouth until john just… couldn't… couldn't take it anymore… and he had… to make… them see her… to make them help… her because…. he couldn't…_

_He grabbed a paramedic roughly by the jugular and pointed the spluttering man's face towards the specter only John could see, screamed vulgar terms and yelled at them to help her, not him until… _

_John began to fall asleep, faster than he had ever done before, deeper and deeper than he ever had before to the shores of a peaceful lake. _

_And they couldn't wake him up…_

XxX

"So you don't know what's wrong with him?" Greg pointed an angry finger at the Doctor's chest, "What have you tried?"

The little man looked at him and gulped. "Stimuliwevetriedstimuli" He burst out.

"Uh-huh and what's 'appened?"

"Nothing. Well, he reacted a little bit to electrical shocks, but we don'treallyknowwhattodountilwefi xhisarm"

"Sorry?"

"Whoever cut off his arm, did a proper good job of cutting it off, but one thing they weren't careful about was… infection. See how sweaty he is?"

Greg nodded.

"Long story short that man is dying. And all he can do is sleep through it."

Greg looked at John as he lay in the white bed, tubes sticking out of gruesome places, face shining with a sticky clammy sweat.

But even then, John slept.

XxX

But what Greg and the Doctors may have taken as sleep, John knew as a nightmare…

Over and over again, the creature dragged him to the bottom of his peaceful lake. Over and over he watched the calm waters turn the hellish waves. Over and over he watches the evil behind the peace reveal its true face.

So here he sits, on the log again, watching the trees and the water and the sky. He sees the slow moving; fat clouds crawl across the heavens, gazes dully at the water as it flows around itself calmly, the trees empty and free of demons.

He shakes his head to himself, staring at his hands.

Such a beautiful lie…


End file.
